“You scheduled some pre-date pampering for tomorrow, right?” London grabs my hands and makes a face at my nails, which are not in the best shape. London is always impeccably put together. She sees her hairstylist every six weeks, goes for bimonthly manicures, and gets her eyebrows waxed, among other parts. If I remember to shave my legs once a week, it’s a miracle. Harley falls somewhere in the middle.
“Uh…”
“Oh, come on, Avery, when was the last time you plucked your eyebrows?” She gives the hairs on the right one a little tug, and I bat her hand away. “You’ve been hanging around with bachelor jocks for way too long. Do you even have a dress picked out?” She slashes a hand through the air. “You know what, don’t say a word, I already know the answer.”
I figure drinks at a sports bar call for jeans and a T-shirt, but apparently my more refined, hipper younger sister does not agree. Within ten minutes, I have a waxing appointment and a mani-pedi scheduled for this evening. “I’ll bring dresses tomorrow. If he’s taking you out for dinner, you need to look like you’re dessert.”
“It’s drinks. Not dinner,” I protest.
“Drinks are always subject to change.” Arguing with London will get me nowhere. Besides, my wardrobe consists mostly of workout gear and exactly five pairs of dress pants, two pairs of heels, and the Spark House shirts we had designed to circumvent my having to actually shop for girly clothes.
London always looks professional, as does Harley in her slightly more casual, funky way. I tend to dress for comfort since I’m the one who plans all the physical and group activities, many of which take place outdoors. Wearing heels, dress pants, and blouses is certainly not conducive to hobbyhorse rail jumping. And yes, I’ve run one of the courses. Hobbyhorse and all. It’s harder than it looks.
“I’ll accept the offer for dresses, but I cannot promise I’ll wear any of them.” She’s going to bring them to work tomorrow anyway, so saying no is pointless.
“Come on, Avery. You have this rockin’ body, and you’re always hiding it under yoga pants and hoodies.”
“Because they’re comfortable.”
“You can forgo comfort for style for a few hours.”
“Fine. But it’s a pretty casual place, so none of your night-on-the-town attire.”
London gives me the side-eye. “I’ll be sure to bring only my Sunday finest.”
I’m pretty sure the last time London stepped inside a church was when our uncle Mortimer got married—for the fourth time. And that was when she was still in college.
Commotion from across the field catches my eye. Two of the riders seem to be at odds with each other. The hand on hip, head tip, nose-to-nose business gives me reason to believe there’s some kind of disagreement happening.
“That doesn’t look very friendly.” I nod in their direction.
“Maybe the horses need a time-out,” Harley mutters.
I give her the side-eye, and she fights a smirk.
“Uh-oh, we have hand and hobbyhorse flailing,” London says, pulling my attention back to the field. The argument seems to be heating up, not cooling down.
“You need to deal with that.” London gives my shoulder a shove. She’s amazing with finances, and she’s great at connecting me with the right vendors, but dealing with conflict is not her strong suit.
“Not in the mood to mediate stuffed horses?” I drop my bag on the ground beside Harley’s feet and briskly cross the field as the argument escalates to yelling. I’m about twenty feet away when one of the men hauls off and whacks the other one with his hobbyhorse.
“Whoa! Whoa! Gentlemen! Time-out. That’s not very sportsmanlike conduct!” I call.
My admonishment goes unheeded, and the two men begin dueling with their hobbyhorses. The bigger of the two jabs the other man in the stomach and snatches his hobbyhorse when he loses his grip on it.
“Gentlemen! Please!” I shout, but it’s hard to be heard over their yelling and the newly formed crowd of hobbyhorse enthusiasts who have gathered and are now heckling the fighters.
Two other men toss their hobbyhorses to the hobbyhorse-less man with shouts of “Kick his ass!”
And here I thought this was a chill sport. Apparently I’m very, very wrong.
The hobbyhorsers face off again, each one holding a broom horse between their legs and another like … a sword, maybe? It reminds me of medieval jousting. Especially when they start stomping their feet, pawing at the ground, and prancing in place. I know things are about to escalate when they shake their heads back and forth, braying loudly and breathing out through their noses in a hardy snort.
Then they run toward each other, while yelling. Even if they’re beating on each other with stuffed horse heads, I’m not interested in anyone ending up with a concussion.
I jump in between them before they collide, which I realize a second too late puts me in a very perilous position. However, the man on my right swerves at the last second and ends up crashing into the trough, toppling it and at least half a dozen of the “feeding” hobbyhorses. The other man skids to a stop mere inches from me, loses his balance, and falls backward onto the ground. It rained yesterday, so while it’s sunny and dry now, the ground is still soft and mucky. And he happens to land in a seriously squishy pile of muddy grass.
He also manages to hit himself in the family jewels with the hobbyhorse. He rolls onto his side, clutching the muddy horse head and his junk. It’s quite the spectacle. Before it turns into absolute mayhem, I grab the megaphone from the group emcee and shout, “Whoa, Nelly!” like an idiot.
However, it does the trick. Every single one of them freezes. “Riders number seventeen and twenty-three, you are disqualified from this round for roughhousing and inappropriate use of your hobbyhorse!” I’m totally making this up on the fly, but someone needs to get these guys under control, and they don’t seem to be able to manage it on their own.
The guy who nut slapped himself—number twenty-three—picks himself up off the ground and hobbles gingerly over to the bench, which is now assigned to disqualified hobbyhorsers. Number seventeen throws himself down on the other end with a huff.
I lower the megaphone and cross my arms. “This is supposed to be about team building and sharing something you’re passionate about. If you want to joust, I suggest you either join a club or interview for a position at Medieval Times.” I motion between them. “Now apologize to each other.”
They look from me to each other and back again.
I cock a brow.
They mutter a half-assed “Sorry.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to earn the right to compete again. You’re adults, not children, and I expect you to conduct yourself with class and grace.” Man, I’m glad I watched all of those YouTube videos in preparation for this.
“I’m sorry I attacked you with your hobbyhorse,” number seventeen says.
“And I’m sorry I called yours a cheap knockoff.” Number twenty-three seems appropriately chagrined by his juvenile insult.
I force a smile. “There. Doesn’t everyone feel better now?”
Honestly, no one would believe the weirdness I deal with on a daily basis.